Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed
by ImmortalityBites
Summary: Set in the past, circa “Flashes Before Your Eyes” just after Des gets whacked with the cricket bat. As he nurses his wounds he is joined at the pub by Charlie who he does not recognize and they share a meaningful little chat. Oneshot.


Title: Living Is Easy With Eyes Closed

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this story, Lost, The Beatles lyric (from "Strawberry Fields Forever"), etc. Yup it's a sad life I do lead.

Summary: Set in the past, circa "Flashes Before Your Eyes" just after Des gets whacked with the cricket bat. As he nurses his wounds he is joined at the pub by Charlie (who he does not recognize) and they share a meaningful little chat. No slash, just friendliness. Oneshot.

Rating: K+ for a spot of language.

Notes: I know that there are different theories about this whole episode, whether Des actually went back into the past, if it was all in his head, etc. For this story it doesn't really matter. He wakes up in the pub and he doesn't remember recognizing Charlie, but he does know what he did to Penny. Thus, as some would say, it's his "first time" living this scene as opposed to the "second time" a la déjà vu. Make sense?

* * *

When he came to The Mamas and The Papas had long since faded away, replaced with another obscure oldie. Instead a dull roar had swapped with the encouraging tune, and if not for the fact that he could still feel physical pain—a bloody lot of it too, for that matter—Desmond Hume would've sworn he was dead. _I can still change things. I can still change it._ These weird residual fragments glided through his mind and faded just as quickly as the jukebox song when he reached a hand up to cup his throbbing jaw. 

"Don't yer bloody well worry, yer worthless sack o' shit, I'll be back!" As his whole head began to pound he could hear Jimmy Lennon's harsh but softly muted words and the slamming of the pub door. He dimly saw bartender rushing from behind the bar to inspect him, probably making sure he wouldn't press charges. And I could use the money, Desmond half-jokingly acknowledged as he gingerly inspected the inside his mouth with his index finger and easily plucked a loose tooth from his jaw line, realizing a lawsuit might actually not be such a bad idea. Can't allow Pen to pay for this too. But this thought, which should have dissipated with as much speed as his other trivial thoughts, suddenly struck him as rather funny. Bloody hysterical, actually. As the bartender struggled to get him into a proper standing position, mumbling something about a drink on the house, Des began to chuckle, then laugh wildly now that the memories of his recent actions came flooding back, causing his heart to ache more brutally than his head.

"Tha's tha sp'rit!" a passing patron with a thick accent encouraged him, mistaking the laughter as actual mirth. "Gret Brits 'bout got 'em beat!" As he passed by on his way back to the telly Desmond's laughter began to die down, and by the time the bartender did materialize with a complimentary pint it had been reduced to intermittent bursts of giggles, then blended into an overwhelming numbness. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He could still faintly feel the rough wood of the cricket bat, and under that the sharp slap Penny dealt him right after he went and broke her heart. But there was something else, that feeling one gets that it's all happened before. French, isn't it…?

"Hey! A pint o' _that,_ if you would be so kind." A young slender man decreed as he slid onto the barstool to Desmond's left. He jabbed a finger at some bottle on the wall, and Desmond noted his chipping black fingernail polish. The stranger then swung a large black case checkered with band stickers under the bar, banging it loudly against the wood and wincing at the noise, which was widely unnoticed due to the large commotion the football game was creating in the back of the pub. Waiting for his drink, the young lad began drumming his fingers upon the counter, then tapping his foot against the underbelly of the bar. Not in the mood for some gutter punk's nonsense, Desmond made a fleeting gesture with his hand that he hoped would demand quiet. Instead it invited a conversation.

"Oi mate! What's happened to your face?" the lad inquired, gesturing to his own thick blonde stubble.

"Just some ruffian…" Desmond muttered as he took a sip from his drink. For a while his meager answer seemed to satisfy the stranger, that is, until a Rolling Stones single began to spew from the jukebox in short bursts of angst-riddled guitar licks. This inspired a renewed drumming frenzy from his neighbor. After a good five minutes the sound of the boy's fingers rapping against the counter began to bore into Desmond's mind, stirring up his once dulled irritation and killing off the false semblance of peace his drink had filled him with.

"Hell brotha, will ya knock it off already?" he angrily demanded without looking directly into his face.

"Woah there, touchy much?" the musician questioned as he raised his dirty hands palms out in a peace entreaty. As he turned back towards his own drink and, Desmond believed, ended the conversation once and for all he suddenly swiveled around with a look of recognition so profound it was worrisome.

"Aye, I've seen you before!" he announced, looking deep into Desmond's surely swollen face. "You were that loony bloke on the street!" Desmond in turn gave him a blank look. "The one who recognized me? Predicted the rain? Good thing too, could've ruined my guitar." He murmured as he lovingly stroked the worn black case.

Desmond chuckled uncomfortably to himself, now remembering the man's face, but not quite what had prompted the exchange of words. He couldn't exactly recall just what had caused him to act like such a fool. "Yeah, yeah. You were the one playing that Oasis song."

"Darn right I was. Charlie Pace!" he declared as if his name carried some weight. "Soon to be famous rock star!"

"Sure." Desmond said absentmindedly, still trying to latch onto the scene the man had described.

"Ah so you're on of those mates? Some straight laced fellow?"

"Nah, brotha." Des smiled as he briefly recalled his stint in the Royal Shakespeare company.

"But we'll be big someday." Charlie resumed. "My brother Liam and I."

"So that's why you were doing Oasis."

"Something like that. Well now…"

"Oh." He fumbled to extend his right hand. "Desmond. Desmond Hume."

"Well now Des," he commented as he shook the other's hand, "don't you identify with music too?"

"I guess so, brotha." He stammered, realizing suddenly that he was a touch out of element, his forte being football, not music. "I like the Beatles." He managed lamely.

"Oh you do? Blimey I love them!" Charlie wildly snatched for his shirt and before Desmond could properly ponder just what this stranger was getting at he hiked up his shirt to reveal a tattoo, of all things.

"'Living is easy with eyes closed'. Well that's nice, isn't it?" he politely observed as he examined the script.

"Lennon was a genius though, wasn't he?" Desmond amiably nodded. To think, he was sitting in a pub chatting away with some random musician when hours ago he had possibly made the biggest mistake of his life. He was acting so bloodly chummy with this lad, and yet he had pushed away the only person he truly cared about. But what use is it? something nagged in the back of his mind. A mere apology would be a waste of time anyway. How _does_ one repair such a ghastly mess like this?

"It's just so poetic and concise. 'Course you _can_ take the easy path through life, but what bloody good is _that_? You can't just cower in fear. You've got to embrace things, jump right in! And that's" he concluded, "why I'm bound to be a famous rock star some day."

Desmond abruptly stopped nodding and began starring. He is right, you know, he thought as he looked into Charlie's youthful, grinning face. Here a total stranger, a street musician no less, was giving him the most insightful advice he'd heard all year. If he were back in the monastery he'd be certain that this musician was a messenger from God. But in his current state, with a shaken faith, at best, all he could do was gape dumbly at the fellow. Seemingly insignificant thoughts of an army poster he had passed recently popped unbidden into his head. Suddenly he was seized with a certainty so profound, so foolproof that he knew what he had to do.

"Thanks, brotha!" He spouted sincerely as he could as he jumped from his stool, the renewed pain in his jaw, and significant amount of alcohol, causing his head to swim. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the bartender watching with a concerned eye from the other side of the bar.

"Anytime, mate." Charlie quipped as he adjusted his shirt and took a swig from his drink, totally unaware of the good he had just done. "Funny bloke indeed." he remarked to no one in particular as he watched the Scotsman stumble out the pub door. As soon as he saw Desmond pass the storefront window and disappear into the night he went right back to drumming his fingers upon the counter, humming merrily to the jukebox tune.


End file.
